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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 196/241
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Bah
!
he
had
done
well
to
leave
the
room
in
disdain
.
He
had
done
well
not
to
salute
her
on
the
steps
of
the
library
!
He
had
done
well
to
leave
her
to
flirt
with
her
priest
,
to
toy
with
a
church
which
was
the
scullery-maid
of
christendom
.
Rude
brutal
anger
routed
the
last
lingering
instant
of
ecstasy
from
his
soul
.
It
broke
up
violently
her
fair
image
and
flung
the
fragments
on
all
sides
.
On
all
sides
distorted
reflections
of
her
image
started
from
his
memory
:
the
flower
girl
in
the
ragged
dress
with
damp
coarse
hair
and
a
hoyden
's
face
who
had
called
herself
his
own
girl
and
begged
his
handsel
,
the
kitchen-girl
in
the
next
house
who
sang
over
the
clatter
of
her
plates
,
with
the
drawl
of
a
country
singer
,
the
first
bars
of
BY
KILLARNEY
'S
LAKES
AND
FELLS
,
a
girl
who
had
laughed
gaily
to
see
him
stumble
when
the
iron
grating
in
the
footpath
near
Cork
Hill
had
caught
the
broken
sole
of
his
shoe
,
a
girl
he
had
glanced
at
,
attracted
by
her
small
ripe
mouth
,
as
she
passed
out
of
Jacob
's
biscuit
factory
,
who
had
cried
to
him
over
her
shoulder
:
--
Do
you
like
what
you
seen
of
me
,
straight
hair
and
curly
eyebrows
?
And
yet
he
felt
that
,
however
he
might
revile
and
mock
her
image
,
his
anger
was
also
a
form
of
homage
.
He
had
left
the
classroom
in
disdain
that
was
not
wholly
sincere
,
feeling
that
perhaps
the
secret
of
her
race
lay
behind
those
dark
eyes
upon
which
her
long
lashes
flung
a
quick
shadow
.
He
had
told
himself
bitterly
as
he
walked
through
the
streets
that
she
was
a
figure
of
the
womanhood
of
her
country
,
a
bat
-
like
soul
waking
to
the
consciousness
of
itself
in
darkness
and
secrecy
and
loneliness
,
tarrying
awhile
,
loveless
and
sinless
,
with
her
mild
lover
and
leaving
him
to
whisper
of
innocent
transgressions
in
the
latticed
ear
of
a
priest
.
His
anger
against
her
found
vent
in
coarse
railing
at
her
paramour
,
whose
name
and
voice
and
features
offended
his
baffled
pride
:
a
priested
peasant
,
with
a
brother
a
policeman
in
Dublin
and
a
brother
a
potboy
in
Moycullen
.
To
him
she
would
unveil
her
soul
's
shy
nakedness
,
to
one
who
was
but
schooled
in
the
discharging
of
a
formal
rite
rather
than
to
him
,
a
priest
of
the
eternal
imagination
,
transmuting
the
daily
bread
of
experience
into
the
radiant
body
of
everliving
life
.
The
radiant
image
of
the
eucharist
united
again
in
an
instant
his
bitter
and
despairing
thoughts
,
their
cries
arising
unbroken
in
a
hymn
of
thanksgiving
.
Our
broken
cries
and
mournful
lays
Rise
in
one
eucharistic
hymn
Are
you
not
weary
of
ardent
ways
?
